Thomas Wingfold, Curate by George MacDonald

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desolation, a remnant of the time when the world was without formand void. And the snake said: "Why, then, did he not speak like thatto my Leopold? Why did he not comfort him with such a good hope,well-becoming a priest of the gentle Jesus? Or, if he fancied hemust speak of confession, why did he not speak of it in plain honestterms, instead of suggesting the idea of it so that the poor boyimagined it came from his own spirit, and must therefore be obeyedas the will of God?"

So said the snake, and by the time Helen had walked home with heraunt, the glow had sunk from her soul, and a gray wintry mist hadsettled down upon her spirit. And she said to herself that if thislast hope in George should fail her, she would not allow the matterto trouble her any farther; she was a free woman, and as Leopold hadchosen other counsellors, had thus declared her unworthy ofconfidence, and, after all that she had suffered and done for loveof him, had turned away from her, she would put money in her purse,set out for France or Italy, and leave him to the fate, whatever itmight be, which his new advisers and his own obstinacy might bringupon him. Was the innocent bound to share the shame of the guilty?Had she not done enough? Would even her father require more of herthan she had already done and endured?

When, therefore, she went into Leopold's room, and his eyes soughther from the couch, she took no notice that he had got up anddressed while she was at church; and he knew that a cloud had comebetween them, and that after all she had borne and done for him, heand his sister were now farther apart, for the time at least, thanwhen oceans lay betwixt their birth and their meeting; and he foundhimself looking back with vague longing even to the terrible oldhouse of Glaston, and the sharing of their agony therein. His eyesfollowed her as she walked across to the dressing-room, and thetears rose and filled them, but he said nothing. And the sister who,all the time of the sermon, had been filled with wave upon wave ofwishing--that Poldie could hear this, could hear that, could havesuch a thought to comfort him, such a lovely word to drive thehorror from his soul, now cast on him a chilly glance, and saidnever a word of the things to which she had listened with suchheavings of the spirit-ocean; for she felt, with an instinct morerighteous than her will, that they would but strengthen him in hisdetermination to do whatever the teacher of them might approve. Asshe repassed him to go to the drawing-room, she did indeed say aword of kindness; but it was in a forced tone, and was only abouthis dinner! His eyes over-flowed, but he shut his lips so tight thathis mouth grew grim with determination, and no more tears came.

To the friend who joined her at the church-door, and, in GeorgeBascombe's absence, walked with them along Pine Street, Mrs.Ramshorn remarked that the curate was certainly a most dangerousman--particularly for young people to hear--he so confounded all thelandmarks of right and wrong, representing the honest man as nobetter than the thief, and the murderer as no worse than anybodyelse--teaching people in fact that the best thing they could do wasto commit some terrible crime, in order thereby to attain to abetter innocence than without it could ever be theirs. How far shemistook, or how far she knew or suspected that she spoke falsely, Iwill not pretend to know. But although she spoke as she did, therewas something, either in the curate or in the sermon, that hadquieted her a little, and she was less contemptuous in hercondemnation of him than usual.

Happily both for himself and others, the curate was not one of thosewho cripple the truth and blind their own souls by

some craven scruple Of thinking too precisely on the event-- A thought which, quartered, hath but one part wisdom, And ever three parts coward;

and hence, in proportion as he roused the honest, he gave occasionto the dishonest to cavil and condemn. Imagine St. Paul having aprevision of how he would be misunderstood, AND HEEDING IT!--whatwould then have become of all those his most magnificent outbursts?And would any amount of apostolic carefulness have protected him? Isuspect it would only have given rise to more vulgar misunderstandingsand misrepresentations still. To explain to him who loves not, isbut to give him the more plentiful material for misinterpretation.Let a man have truth in the inward parts, and out of the abundanceof his heart let his mouth speak. If then he should have ground tofear honest misunderstanding, let him preach again to enforce thetruth for which he is jealous, and if it should seem to any that thetwo utterances need reconciling, let those who would have them consistentreconcile them for themselves.

The reason of George Bascombe's absence from church that morningwas, that, after an early breakfast, he had mounted Helen's mare,and set out to call on Mr. Hooker before he should have gone tochurch. Helen expected him back to dinner, and was anxiously lookingfor him. So also was Leopold, but the hopes of the two weredifferent.

At length the mare's hoofs echoed through all Sunday Glaston, andpresently George rode up. The groom took his horse in the street,and he came into the drawing-room. Helen hastened to meet him.

"Well, George?" she said, anxiously.

"Oh, it's all right!--will be at least, I am sure. I will tell youall about it in the garden after dinner.--Aunt has the good sensenever to interrupt us there," he added. "I'll just run and showmyself to Leopold: he must not suspect that I am of your party andplaying him false. Not that it is false, you know! for two negativesmake a positive, and to fool a mad-man is to give him fair play."

The words jarred sorely on Helen's ear.

Bascombe hurried to Leopold, and informed him that he had seen Mr.Hooker, and that all was arranged for taking him over to his placeon Tuesday morning, if by that time he should be able for thejourney.

"Why not to-morrow?" said Leopold. "I am quite able."

"Oh! I told him you were not very strong. And he wanted a run afterthe hounds to-morrow. So we judged it better put off till Tuesday."

Leopold gave a sigh, and said no more.

CHAPTER II.

BASCOMBE AND THE MAGISTRATE.

After dinner, the cousins went to the summer-house, and there Georgegave Helen his report, revealing his plan and hope for Leopold.

"Such fancies must be humoured, you know, Helen. There is nothing tobe gained by opposing them," he said.

Helen looked at him with keen eyes, and he returned the gaze. Theconfidence betwixt them was not perfect: each was doubtful as to thethought of the other, and neither asked what it was.

"A fine old cock is Mr. Hooker!" said Greorge; "a jolly,good-natured, brick-faced squire; a tory of course, and a soundchurch-man; as simple as a baby, and took everything I told himwithout a hint of doubt or objection;--just the sort of man Iexpected to find him! When I mentioned my name, &c., he found he hadknown my father, and that gave me a good start. Then I lauded hisavenue, and apologized for troubling him so early and on Sunday too,but said it was a pure work of mercy in which I begged hisassistance--as a magistrate, I added, lest he should fancy I hadcome after a subscription. It was a very delicate case, I said, inwhich were concerned the children of a man of whom he had, Ibelieved, at one time known something--General Lingard. 'To besure!' he cried; 'knew him very well; a fine fellow--but hasty,sir--hasty in his temper!' I said I had never known him myself, butone of his children was my cousin; the other was the child of hissecond wife, a Hindoo lady unfortunately, and it was about him Ipresumed to trouble him. Then I plunged into the matter at once,telling him that Leopold had had violent brain-fever, brought on bya horrible drug, the use of which, if use I dare call it, he hadlearnt in India; and that, although he had recovered from the fever,it was very doubtful if ever he would recover from the consequencesof it, for that he had become the prey of a fixed idea, the harddeposit from a heated imagination. 'And pray what is the idea?'heasked. 'Neither more nor less,' I answered, 'than that he is amurderer!'--'God bless me!' he cried, somewhat to my alarm, for Ihad been making all this preamble to prejudice the old gentleman inthe right direction, lest afterwards Leopold's plausibility might betoo much for him. So I echoed the spirit of his exclamation,declaring it was one of the saddest things I had ever known, that afellow of such sweet and gentle nature, one utterly incapable ofunkindness, not to say violence, should be so possessed by miseryand remorse for a phantom-deed, no more his than if he had dreamedit, a thing he not only did not do, but never could have done. I hadnot yet however told him, I said, what was perhaps the saddest pointin the whole sad story--namely, that the attack had been brought onby the news of the actual murder of a lady to whom he had beenpassionately attached; the horror of it had unhinged his reason,then turned and fastened upon his imagination; so that he was nowconvinced beyond the reach of argument or even the clearest proof,that it was his own hand that drove the knife to her heart. Then Irecalled to his memory the case as reported, adding that the fact ofthe murderer's prolonged evasion of justice, appeared, by somecurious legerdemain of his excited fancy, if not to have suggested--of that I was doubtful--yet to have ripened his conviction of guilt.Now nothing would serve him but he must give himself up,confess--no, that was not a true word in his case!--accuse himselfof the crime, and meet his fate on the gallows,--'in the hope,observe, my dear sir,' I said, 'of finding her in the other world,and there making it up with her!'--'God bless me!' he cried again,in a tone of absolute horror. And every now and then, while I spoke,he would ejaculate something; and still as he listened his eyes grewmore and more bloodshot with interest and compassion. 'Ah, I see!'he said then; 'you want to send him to a madhouse?--Don't do it,' hecontinued, in a tone of expostulation, almost entreaty. 'Poor boy!He may get over it. Let his friends look to him. He has a sister,you say?' I quickly reassured him, telling him such was no one'sdesire, and saying I would come to the point in a moment, only therewas one thing more which had interested me greatly, as revealing howa brain in such a condition will befool itself, all but generatingtwo individualities.--There I am afraid I put my foot in it, but hewas far too simple to see it was cloven--ha! ha! and I hastened toremark that, as a magistrate, he must have numberless opportunitiesof noting similar phenomena. He waved his hand in deprecation, and Ihastened to remark that, up to a certain point, whatever hint thenewspapers had given, Leopold had expanded and connected with everyother, but that at one part of the story I had found him entirely atfault: he could not tell what he did, where he went, or how he hadfelt, first after the deed was done. He confessed all after that wasa blank until he found himself in bed. But when I told him somethinghe had not seen--which his worship might remember--the testimonynamely of the coast-guardsmen--about the fishing-boat with the twomen in it--I had here to refresh his memory as to the whole of thatcircumstance--and did so by handing him the newspaper containingit--that was what I made you give me the paper for--I have lost thethread of my sentence, but never mind. I told him then something Ihave not told you yet, Helen, namely, that when I happened to alludeto that portion of the story, Leopold started up with flashing eyes,and exclaimed, 'Now I remember! It all comes back to me as clear asday. I remember running down the hill, and jumping into the boatjust as they shoved off. I was exhausted, and fell down in thestern. When I came to myself, the two men were forward: I saw theirlegs beneath the sails. I thought they would be sure to give me up,and at once I slipped overboard. The water revived me, but when Ireached the shore, I fell down again, and lay there I don't know howlong. Indeed I don't remember anything more except very confusedly.'That is what Leopold said, and what I now told Mr. Hooker. Then atlast I opened my mind to him as to wherein I ventured to ask hisassistance; and my petition was, that he would allow me to bringLeopold, and would let him go through the form of giving himself upto justice. Especially I begged that he would listen to all he hadto say, and give no sign that he doubted his story. 'And then, sir,'I concluded, 'I would leave it to you to do what we cannot--reconcilehim to going home instead of to prison.'

"He sat with his head on his hand for a while, as if pondering someweighty question of law. Then he said suddenly: 'It is now almostchurch-time. I will think the matter over. You may rely upon me.Will you take a seat in my pew and dine with us after?' I excusedmyself on the ground that I must return at once to poor Leopold, whowas anxiously looking for me. And you must forgive me, Helen, andnot fancy me misusing Fanny, if I did yield to the temptation of alittle longer ride. I have scarcely more than walked her, with acanter now and then when we had the chance of a bit of turf."

Helen assured him with grateful eyes that she knew Fanny was as safewith him as with herself; and she felt such a gush of gratitudefollow the revival of hope, that she was nearer being in love withher cousin to ever before. Her gratitude inwardly delighted George,and he thought the light in her blue eyes lovelier than ever; butalthough strougly tempted, he judged it better to delay a formalconfession until circumstances should be more comfortable.

CHAPTER III.

THE CONFESSION.

All that and the following day Leopold was in spirits for himwonderful. On Monday night there came a considerable reaction; hewas dejected, worn, and weary. Twelve o'clock the next day was thehour appointed for their visit to Mr. Hooker, and at eleven he wasdressed and ready--restless, agitated, and very pale, but not a whitless determined than at first. A drive was the pretext for borrowingMrs. Ramshorn's carriage.

"Why is Mr. Wingfold not coming?" asked Lingard, anxiously, when itbegan to move.

"I fancy we shall be quite as comfortable without him, Poldie," saidHelen. "Did you expect him?"

"He promised to go with me. But he hasn't called since the time wasfixed."--Here Helen looked out of the window.--"I can't think why itis. I can do my duty without him though," continued Leopold, "andperhaps it is just as well.--Do you know, George, since I made up mymind, I have seen her but once, and that was last night, and only ina dream."

"A state of irresolution is one peculiarly open to unhealthyimpressions," said George, good-naturedly disposing of his long legsso that they should be out of the way.

Leopold turned from him to his sister.

"The strange thing, Helen," he said, "was that I did not feel theleast afraid of her, or even abashed before her. 'I see you,' Isaid. 'Be at peace. I am coming; and you shall do to me what youwill.' And then--what do you think?--O my God! she smiled one of herown old smiles, only sad too, very sad, and vanished. I woke, andshe seemed only to have just left the room, for there was a stir inthe darkness.--Do you believe in ghosts, George?"

Leopold was not one of George's initiated, I need hardly say.

"No," answered Bascombe.

"I don't wonder. I can't blame you, for neither did I once. But justwait till you have made one, George!"

"God forbid!" exclaimed Bascombe, a second time forgetting himself.

"Amen!" said Leopold: "for after that there's no help but be oneyourself, you know."

"If he would only talk like that to old Hooker!" thought George. "Itwould go a long way to forestall any possible misconception of thecase."

"Now, Poldie, you mustn't talk," said Helen, "or you'll be exhaustedbefore we get to Mr. Hooker's."

"She did not wish the non-appearance of the curate on Monday to beclosely inquired into. His company at the magistrate's was by allpossible means to be avoided. George had easily persuaded Helen,more easily than he expected, to wait their return in the carriage,and the two men were shown into the library, where the magistratepresently joined them. He would have shaken hands with Leopold aswell as George, but the conscious felon drew back.

"No, sir; excuse me," he said. "Hear what I have to tell you first;and if after that you will shake hands with me, it will be akindness indeed. But you will not! you will not!"

Worthy Mr. Hooker was overwhelmed with pity at sight of the wornsallow face with the great eyes, in which he found every appearanceconfirmatory of the tale wherewith Bascombe had filled andprejudiced every fibre of his judgment. He listened in the kindestway while the poor boy forced the words of his confession from histhroat. But Leopold never dreamed of attributing his emotion to anyother cause than compassion for one who had been betrayed into sucha crime. It was against his will, for he seemed now bent, even tounreason, on fighting every weakness, that he was prevailed upon totake a little wine. Having ended, he sat silent, in the posture ofone whose wrists are already clasped by the double bracelet ofsteel.

Now Mr. Hooker had thought the thing out in church on the Sunday;and after a hard run at the tail of a strong fox over a roughcountry on the Monday, and a good sleep well into the morning of theTuesday, could see no better way. His device was simple enough.

"My dear young gentleman," he said, "I am very sorry for you, but Imust do my duty."

"That, sir, is what I came to you for," answered Leopold, humbly.

"Then you must consider yourself my prisoner. The moment you, aregone, I shall make notes of your deposition, and proceed to arrangefor the necessary formalities. As a mere matter of form, I shalltake your own bail in a thousand pounds to surrender when calledupon."

"But I am not of age, and haven't got a thousand pounds," saidLeopold.

"You are very good, George," said Leopold. "But you know I can't runaway if I would," he added with a pitiful attempt at a smile.

"I hope you will soon be better," said the magistrate kindly.

"Why such a wish, sir?" returned Leopold, almost reproachfully, andthe good man stood abashed before him.

He thought of it afterwards, and was puzzled to know how it was.

"You must hold yourself in readiness," he said, recovering himselfwith an effort, "to give yourself up at any moment. And, rememher, Ishall call upon you when I please, every week, perhaps, or oftener,to see that you are safe. Your aunt is an old friend of mine, andthere will be no need of explanations. This turns out to be nocommon case, and after hearing the whole, I do not hesitate to offeryou my hand."

Leopold was overcome by his kindness, and withdrew speechless, butgreatly relieved.

Several times during the course of his narrative, its apparenttruthfulness and its circumstantiality went nigh to stagger Mr.Hooker; but a glance at Bascombe's face, with its half-amused smile,instantly set him right again, and he thought with dismay how nearhe had been to letting himself be fooled by a madman.

Again in the carriage, Leopold laid his head on Helen's shoulder,and looked up in her face with such a smile as she had never seen onhis before. Certainly there was something in confession--if onlyenthusiasts like Mr. Wingfold would not spoil all by pushing thingsto extremes and turning good into bad!

Leopold was yet such a child, had so little occupied himself withthings about him, and had been so entirely taken up with hispassion, and the poetry of existence unlawfully forced, that if hisknowledge of the circumstances of Emmeline's murder had depended onthe newspapers, he would have remained in utter ignorance concerningthem. From the same causes he was so entirely unacquainted with themodes of criminal procedure, that the conduct of the magistratenever struck him as strange, not to say illegal. And so strongly didhe feel the good man's kindness and sympathy, that his comfort frommaking a clean breast of it was even greater than he expected.Before they reached home he was fast asleep. When laid on his couch,he almost fell asleep again, and Helen saw him smile as he slept.

CHAPTER IV.

THE MASK.

But although such was George Bascombe's judgment of Leopold, andsuch his conduct of his affair, he could not prevent the recurrentintrusion of the flickering doubt which had showed itself when firsthe listened to the story. Amid all the wildness of the tale therewas yet a certain air, not merely of truthfulness in thenarrator--that was not to be questioned--but of verisimilitude inthe narration, which had its effect, although it gave rise to noconscious exercise of discriminating or ponderating faculty.Leopold's air of conviction also, although of course that might wellaccompany the merest invention rooted in madness, yet had its force,persistently as George pooh-poohed it--which he did the morestrenuously from the intense, even morbid abhorrence of his natureto being taken in, and having to confess himself of unstableintellectual equilibrium. Possibly this was not the only kind ofthing in which the sensitiveness of a vanity he would himself havedisowned, had rendered him unfit for perceiving the truth. Nor do Iknow how much there may be to choose between the two shames--that ofaccepting what is untrue, and that of refusing what is true.

The second time he listened to Leopold's continuous narrative, thedoubt returned with more clearness and less flicker: there was sucha thing as being over-wise: might he not be taking himself in withhis own incredulity? Ought he not to apply some test? And didLeopold's story offer any means of doing so?--One thing, he thenfound, had been dimly haunting his thoughts ever since he heard it:Leopold affirmed that he had thrown his cloak and mask down an oldpit-shaft, close by the place of murder: if there was such a shaft,could it be searched?--Recurring doubt at length so wrought upon hismind, that he resolved to make his holiday excursion to thatneighbourhood, and there endeavour to gain what assurance of anysort might be to be had. What end beyond his own possiblesatisfaction the inquiry was to answer he did not ask himself. Therestless spirit of the detective, so often conjoined withindifference to what is in its own nature true, was at work inhim--but that was not all: he must know the very facts, if possible,of whatever concerned Helen. I shall not follow his proceedingsclosely: it is with their reaction upon Leopold that I have to do.

The house where the terrible thing took place was not far from alittle moorland village. There Bascombe found a small inn, where hetook up his quarters, pretending to be a geologist out for aholiday. He soon came upon the disused shaft.

The inn was a good deal frequented in the evenings by the colliersof the district--a rough race, but not beyond the influences of suchan address, mingled of self-assertion and good fellowship, asBascombe brought to bear upon them, for he had soon perceived thatamongst them he might find the assistance he wanted. In the courseof conversation, therefore, he mentioned the shaft, on which hepretended to have come in his rambles. Remarking on the danger ofsuch places, he learned that this one served for ventilation, andwas still accessible below from other workings. Thereafter he beggedpermission to go down one of the pits, on pretext of examining thecoal-strata, and having secured for his guide one of the mostintelligent of those whose acquaintance he had made at the inn,persuaded him, partly by expressions of incredulity because of thedistance between, to guide him to the bottom of the shaft whoseaccessibility he maintained. That they were going in the rightdirection, he had the testimony of the little compass he carried athis watch-chain, and at length he saw a faint gleam before him. Whenat last he raised his head, wearily bent beneath the low roofs ofthe passages, and looked upwards, there was a star looking down athim out of the sky of day! But George never wasted time in staringat what was above his head, and so began instantly to search aboutas if examining the indications of the strata. Was it possible?Could it be? There was a piece of black something that was not coal,and seemed textile! It was a half-mask, for there were theeye-holes in it! He caught it up and hurried it into his bag--not soquickly but that the haste set his guide speculating. And Bascombesaw that the action was noted. The man afterwards offered to carryhis bag, but he would not allow him.

The next morning he left the place and returned to London, takingGlaston, by a detour, on his way. A few questions to Leopold drewfrom him a description of the mask he had worn, entirelycorresponding with the one George had found; and at length he wassatisfied that there was truth more than a little in Leopold'sconfession. It was not his business, however, he now said tohimself, to set magistrates right. True, he had set Mr. Hooker wrongin the first place, but he had done it in good faith, and how couldhe turn traitor to Helen and her brother? Besides, he was sure themagistrate himself would be anything but obliged to him for openinghis eyes! At the same time Leopold's fanatic eagerness afterconfession might drive the matter further, and if so, it mightbecome awkward for him. He might be looked to for the defence, andwere he not certain that his guide had marked his concealment ofwhat he had picked up, he might have ventured to undertake it, forcertainly it would have been a rare chance for a display of theforensic talent he believed himself to possess; but as it was, themoment he was called to the bar--which would be within afortnight--he would go abroad, say to Paris, and there, for twelvemonths or so, await events.

When he disclosed to Helen his evil success in the coalpit, it wasbut the merest film of a hope it destroyed, for she KNEW that herbrother was guilty. George and she now felt that they were linked bythe possession of a common, secret.

But the cloak had been found a short time before, and was in thepossession of Emmeline's mother. That mother was a woman of strongpassions and determined character. The first shock of thecatastrophe over, her grief was almost supplanted by a rage forvengeance, in the compassing of which no doubt she vaguely imaginedshe would be doing something to right her daughter. Hence theprotracted concealment of the murderer was bitterness to her soul,and she vowed herself to discovery and revenge as the one businessof her life. In this her husband, a good deal broken by the fearfulevent, but still more by misfortunes of another kind which had begunto threaten him, offered her no assistance, and indeed felt neitherher passion urge him, nor her perseverance hold him to the pursuit.

In the neighbourhood her mind was well known, and not a few foundtheir advantage in supplying her passion with the fuel of hope. Anyhint of evidence, however small, the remotest suggestion eventowards discovery, they would carry at once to her, for she was anopen-handed woman, and in such case would give with a profusionthat, but for the feeling concerned, would have been absurd, and didexpose her to the greed of every lying mendicant within reach ofher. Not unnaturally, therefore, it had occurred to a certaincollier to make his way to the bottom of the shaft, on thechance--hardly of finding, but of being enabled to invent somethingworth reporting; and there, to the very fooling of his barrenexpectation, he had found the cloak.

The mother had been over to Holland, where she had institutedunavailing inquiries in the villages along the coast and among theislands, and had been home but a few days when the cloak was carriedto her. In her mind it immediately associated itself with thecostumes of the horrible ball, and at once she sought the list ofher guests thereat. It was before her at the very moment when theman, who had been Bascombe's guide, sent in to request an interview,the result of which was to turn her attention for the time inanother direction.--Who might the visitor to the mine have been?

Little was to be gathered in the neighbourhood beyond the facts thatthe letters G. B. were on his carpet-bag, and that a scrap of tornenvelope bore what seemed the letters mple. She despatched the poorindications to an inquiry-office in London.

CHAPTER V.

FURTHER DECISION.

The day after his confession to Mr. Hooker, a considerable re-actiontook place in Lingard. He did not propose to leave his bed, and layexhausted. He said he had caught cold. He coughed a little; wonderedwhy Mr. Wingfold did not come to see him, dozed a good deal, andoften woke with a start. Mrs. Ramshorn thought Helen ought to makehim get up: nothing, she said, could be worse for him than lying inbed; but Helen thought, even if her aunt were right, he must behumoured. The following day Mr. Hooker called, inquired after him,and went up to his room to see him. There he said all he could thinkof to make him comfortable; repeated that certain preliminaries hadto be gone through before the commencement of the prosecution; saidthat while these went on, it was better he should be in his sister'scare than in prison, where, if he went at once, he most probablywould die before the trial came on; that in the meantime he wasresponsible for him; that, although he had done quite right ingiving himself up, he must not let what was done and could no morebe helped, prey too much upon his mind, lest it should render himunable to give his evidence with proper clearness, and he should bejudged insane and sent to Broadmoor, which would be frightful. Heended by saying that he had had great provocation, and that he wascertain the judge would consider it in passing sentence, only hemust satisfy the jury there had been no premeditation.

"I will not utter a word to excuse myself, Mr. Hooker," repliedLeopold.

The worthy magistrate smiled sadly, and went away, if possible, moreconvinced of the poor lad's insanity.

The visit helped Leopold over that day, but when the next alsopassed, and neither did Wingfold appear, nor any explanation of hisabsence reach him, he made up his mind to act again for himself.

The cause of the curate's apparent neglect, though ill to find, wasnot far to seek.

On the Monday, he had, upon some pretext or other, been turned away;on the Tuesday, he had been told that Mr. Lingard had gone for adrive; on the Wednesday, that he was much too tired to be seen; andthereupon had at length judged it better to leave things to rightthemselves. If Leopold did not want to see him, it would be of nouse by persistence to force his way to him; while on the other hand,if he did want to see him, he felt convinced the poor fellow wouldmanage to have his own way somehow.

The next morning after he had thus resolved, Leopold declaredhimself better, and got up and dressed. He then lay on the sofa andwaited as quietly as he could until Helen went out--Mr, Faberinsisting she should do so every day. It was no madness, but aburning desire for life, coupled with an utter carelessness of thatwhich is commonly called life, that now ruled his behaviour. He tiedhis slippers on his feet, put on his smoking-cap, crept unseen fromthe house, and took the direction, of the Abbey. The influence ofthe air--by his weakness rendered intoxicating, the strange look ofeverything around him, the nervous excitement of every humanapproach, kept him up until he reached the churchyard, across whichhe was crawling, to find the curate's lodging, when suddenly hisbrain seemed to go swimming away into regions beyond the senses. Heattempted to seat himself on a grave-stone, but lost consciousness,and fell at full length between that and the next one.

When Helen returned, she was horrified to find that he hadgone--when, or whither nobody knew: no one had missed him. Her firstfear was the river, but her conscience enlightened her, and hershame could not prevent her from seeking him at the curate's. In herhaste she passed him where he lay.

Shown into the curate's study, she gave a hurried glance around, andher anxiety became terror again.

"Oh! Mr. Wingfold," she cried, "where is Leopold?"

"I have not seen him," replied the curate, turning pale.

"Then he has thrown himself in the river!" cried Helen, and sank ona chair.

The curate caught up his hat.

"You wait here," he said. "I will go and look for him."

But Helen rose, and, without another word, they set off together,and again entered the churchyard. As they hurried across it, thecurate caught sight of something on the ground, and, springingforward, found Leopold.

"He is dead!" cried Helen, in an agony, when she saw him stop andstoop.

He looked dead indeed; but what appalled her the most reassuredWingfold a little: blood had flowed freely from a cut on hiseyebrow.

The curate lifted him, no hard task, out of the damp shadow, andlaid him on the stone, which was warm in the sun, with his head onHelen's lap, then ran to order the carriage, and hastened back withbrandy. They got a little into his mouth, but he could not swallowit. Still it seemed to do him good, for presently he gave a deepsigh; and just then they heard the carriage stop at the gate.Wingfold took him up, carried him to it, got in with him in hisarms, and held him on his knees until he reached the manor house,when he carried him upstairs and laid him on the sofa. When they hadbrought him round a little, he undressed him and put him to bed.

"Do not leave me," murmured Leopold, just as Helen entered the room,and she heard it.

Wingfold looked to her for the answer he was to make. Her bearingwas much altered: she was both ashamed and humbled.

"Yes, Leopold," she said, "Mr. Wingfold will, I am sure, stay withyou as long as he can."

"Indeed I will," assented the curate. "But I must run for Mr. Faberfirst."

"How did I come here?" asked Leopold, opening his eyes large uponHelen after swallowing a spoonful of the broth she held to his lips.

But, before she could answer him, he turned sick, and by the timethe doctor came was very feverish. Faber gave the necessarydirections, and Wingfold walked back with him to get hisprescription made up.

CHAPTER VI.

THE CURATE AND THE DOCTOR.

"There is something strange about that young man's illness," saidFaber, as soon as they had left the house. "I fancy you know morethan you can tell, and if so, then I have committed no indiscretionin saying as much."

"Perhaps it might be an indiscretion to acknowledge as muchhowever," said the curate with a smile.

"You are right. I have not been long in the place," returned Faber,"and you had no opportunity of testing me. But I am indifferenthonest as well as you, though I don't go you in everything."

"People would have me believe you don't go with me in anything."

"They say as much--do they?" returned Faber with some annoyance. "Ithought I had been careful not to trespass on your preserves."

"As for preserves, I don't know of any," answered the curate. "Thereis no true bird in the grounds that won't manage somehow to escapethe snare of the fowler."

"Well," said the doctor, "I know nothing about God and all that kindof thing, but, though I don't think I'm a coward exactly either, Iknow I should like to have your pluck."

"I haven't got any pluck," said the curate.

"Tell that to the marines," said Faber. "I daren't go and say what Ithink or don't think, even in the bedroom of my least orthodoxpatient--at least, if I do, I instantly repent it--while you go onsaying what you really believe Sunday after Sunday!--How you canbelieve it, I don't know, and it's no business of mine."

"Oh yes, it is!" returned Wingfold. "But as to the pluck, it may bea man's duty to say in the pulpit what he would be just as wrong tosay by a sick-bed."

"That has nothing to do with the pluck! That's all I care about."

"It has everything to do with what you take for pluck. My pluck isonly Don Worm."

"I don't know what you mean by that."

"It's Benedick's name, in Much Ado about Nothing, for theconscience. MY pluck is nothing but my conscience."

"It's a damned fine thing to have anyhow, whatever name you put uponit!" said Faber.

"Excuse me if I find your epithet more amusing than apt," saidWingfold, laughing.

"You are quite right," said Faber. "I apologize."

"As to the pluck again," Wingfold resumed, "--if you think of thisone fact--that my whole desire is to believe in God, and that theonly thing I can be sure of sometimes is that, if there be a God,none but an honest man will ever find him, you will not then saythere is much pluck in my speaking the truth?"

"I don't see that that makes it a hair easier, in the face of such aset of gaping noodles as--"

"I beg your pardon:--there is more lack of conscience than of brainsin the Abbey of a Sunday, I fear."

"Well, all I have to say is, I can't for the life of me see what youwant to believe in a God for! It seems to me the world would gorather better without any such fancy. Look here now: there is youngSpenser--out there at Harwood--a patient of mine. His wife diedyesterday--one of the loveliest young creatures you ever saw. Thepoor fellow is as bad about it as fellow can be. Well, he's one ofyour sort, and said to me the other day, just as you would have him,'It's the will of God,' he said, 'and we must hold our peace.'--'Don'ttalk to me about God,' I said, for I couldn't stand it. 'Do you meanto tell me that, if there was a God, he would have taken such a lovelycreature as that away from her husband and her helpless infant, at theage of two and twenty? I scorn to believe it.'"

"What did he say to that?"

"He turned as white as death, and said never a word."

"Ah, you forgot that you were taking from him his only hope ofseeing her again!"

"I certainly did not think of that," said Faber.

"Even then," resumed Wingfold, "I should not say you were wrong, ifyou were prepared to add that you had searched every possible regionof existence, and had found no God; or that you had tried everytheory man had invented, or even that you were able to inventyourself, and had found none of them consistent with the being of aGod. I do not say that then you would be right in your judgment, foranother man, of equal weight, might have had a different experience.I only say, I would not then blame you. But you must allow it a veryserious thing to assert as a conviction, without such grounds as theassertor has pretty fully satisfied himself concerning, what COULDonly drive the sting of death ten times deeper."

The doctor was silent.

"I doubt not you spoke in a burst of indignation; but it seems to methe indignation of a man unaccustomed to ponder the thingsconcerning which he expresses such a positive conviction."

"You are wrong there," returned Faber; "for I was brought up in thestraitest sect of the Pharisees, and know what I am saying."

"The straitest sect of the Pharisees can hardly be the school inwhich to gather any such idea of a God as one could wish to be areality."

"They profess to know."

"Is that any argument of weight, they and their opinions being whatthey are?--If there be a God, do you imagine he would choose anystrait sect under the sun to be his interpreters?"

"But the question is not of the idea of a God, but of the existenceof any, seeing, if he exists, he must be such as the human heartcould never accept as God, inasmuch as he at least permits, if nothimself enacts cruelty. My argument to poor Spenser remains--howeverunwise or indeed cruel it may have been."

"I grant it a certain amount of force--as much exactly as had goneto satisfy the children whom I heard the other day agreeing that Dr.Faber was a very cruel man, for he pulled out nurse's tooth, andgave poor little baby such a nasty, nasty powder!"

"Is that a fair parallel? I must look at it."

"I think it is. What you do is often unpleasant, sometimes mostpainful, but it does not follow that you are a cruel man, and ahurter instead of a healer of men."

"I think there is a fault in the analogy," said Faber. "For here amI nothing but a slave to laws already existing, and compelled towork according to them. It is not my fault therefore that theremedies I have to use are unpleasant. But if there be a God, he hasthe matter in his own hands."

"There is weight and justice in your argument, which may well makethe analogy appear at first sight false. But is there no theorypossible that should make it perfect?"

"I do not see how there should be any. For, if you say God is underany such compulsion as I am under, then surely the house is dividedagainst itself, and God is not God any more."

"For my part," said the curate, "I think I COULD believe in a Godwho did but his imperfect best: in one all power, and not allgoodness, I could not believe. But suppose that the design of Godinvolved the perfecting of men as the CHILDREN OF GOD--'I said yeare gods,'--that he would have them partakers of his own blessednessin kind--be as himself;--suppose his grand idea could not becontented with creatures perfect ONLY by his gift, so far as thatshould reach, and having no willing causal share in the perfection,that is, partaking not at all of God's individuality and free-willand choice of good; then suppose that suffering were the only waythrough which the individual could be set, in separate andself-individuality, so far apart from God, that it might WILL, andso become a partaker of his singleness and freedom;--and supposethat this suffering must be and had been initiated by God's takinghis share, and that the infinitely greater share;--suppose next,that God saw the germ of a pure affection, say in your friend andhis wife, but saw also that it was a germ so imperfect and weak thatit could not encounter the coming frosts and winds of the worldwithout loss and decay, while, if they were parted now for a fewyears, it would grow and strengthen and expand, to the certainty ofan infinitely higher and deeper and keener love through the endlessages to follow--so that by suffering should come, in place ofcontented decline, abortion, and death, a troubled birth of joyousresult in health and immortality;--suppose all this, and what then?"

Faber was silent a moment, then answered,

"Your theory has but one fault: it is too good to be true."

"My theory leaves plenty of difficulty, but has no such fault asthat. Why, what sort of a God would content you, Mr. Faber? The oneidea is too bad, the other too good to be true. Must you expand andpare until you get one exactly to the measure of yourself ere youcan accept it as thinkable or possible? Why, a less God than thatwould not rest your soul a week. The only possibility of believingin a God seems to me to lie in finding an idea of a God largeenough, grand enough, pure enough, lovely enough to be fit tobelieve in."

"And have you found such--may I ask?"

"I think I am finding such."

"Where?"

"In the man of the New Testament. I have thought a little more aboutthese things, I fancy, than you have, Mr. Faber. I may come to besure of something; I don't see how a man can ever be sure ofNOTHING."

"Don't suppose me quite dumbfoundered, though I can't answer you offhand," said Mr. Faber, as they reached his door.--"Come in with me,and I will make up the medicine myself; it will save time. There area thousand difficulties," he resumed in the surgery, "some of themspringing from peculiar points that come before one of myprofession, which I doubt if you would be able to meet so readily.But about this poor fellow, Lingard. You know Glaston gossip says heis out of his mind."

"If I were you, Mr. Faber, I would not take pains to contradict it.He is not out of his mind, but has such trouble in it as might welldrive him out.--Don't you even hint at that, though."

"I understand," said Faber.

"If doctor and minister did understand each other and worktogether," said Wingfold, "I fancy a good deal more might be done."

"I don't doubt it.--What sort of fellow is that cousin oftheirs--Bascombe is his name, I believe?"

"A man to suit you, I should think," said the curate; "a man with amost tremendous power of believing in nothing."

"Come, come!" returned the doctor, "you don't know half enough aboutme to tell what sort of man I should like or dislike."

"Well, all I will say more of Bascombe is, that if he were notconceited he would be honest; and if he were as honest as hebelieves himself, he would not be so ready to judge every onedishonest who does not agree with him."

"I hope we may have another talk soon," said the doctor, searchingfor a cork. "Some day I will tell you a few things that may staggeryou."

"Likely enough: I am only learning to walk yet," said Wingfold."But a man may stagger and not fall, and I am ready to hear anythingyou choose to tell me."

Faber handed him the bottle, and he took his leave.

CHAPTER VII.

HELEN AND THE CURATE.

Before the morning Leopold lay wound in the net of a low fever,almost as ill as ever, but with this difference, that his mind wasfar less troubled, and that even his most restless dreams no longerscared him awake to a still nearer assurance of misery. And yet,many a time, as she watched by his side, it was excruciatingly plainto Helen that the stuff of which his dreams were made was the lastprocess to the final execution of the law. She thought she couldfollow it all in his movements and the expressions of hiscountenance. At a certain point, the cold dew always appeared on hisforehead, after which invariably came a smile, and he would be quietuntil near morning, when the same signs again appeared. Sometimes hewould murmur prayers, and sometimes it seemed to Helen that he mustfancy himself talking face to face with Jesus, for the look ofblessed and trustful awe upon his countenance was amazing in itsbeauty.

For Helen herself, she was prey to a host of changeful emotions. Atone time she accused herself bitterly of having been the cause ofthe return of his illness; the next a gush of gladness would swellher heart at the thought that now she had him at least safer for awhile, and that he might die and so escape the whole crowd ofhorrible possibilities. For George's manipulation of the magistratecould but delay the disclosure of the truth; even should nodiscovery be made, Leopold must at length suspect a trick, and thatwould at once drive him to fresh action.

But amongst the rest, a feeling which had but lately begun toindicate its far-off presence now threatened to bring with it adeeper and more permanent sorrow: it became more and more plain toher that she had taken the evil part against the one she loved bestin the world; that she had been as a Satan to him; had driven himback, stood almost bodily in the way to turn him from the path ofpeace. Whether the path he had sought to follow was the only one ornot, it was the only one he knew; and that it was at least A trueone, was proved by the fact that he had already found in it thebeginnings of the peace he sought; while she, for the avoidance ofshame and pity, for the sake of the family, as she had said toherself, had pursued a course which if successful, would at besthave resulted in shutting him up, as in a madhouse, with his owninborn horrors, with vain remorse, and equally vain longing. Herconscience, now that her mind was quieter, from the greater distanceto which the threatening peril had again withdrawn, had taken theopportunity of speaking louder. And she listened--but still withone question ever presented: Why might he not appropriate theconsolations of the gospel without committing the suicide ofsurrender? She could not see that confession was the very door ofrefuge and safety, towards which he must press.

George's absence was now again a relief, and while she feared andshrank from the severity of Wingfold, she could not help a certainindiscribable sense of safety in his presence--at least so long asLeopold was too ill to talk.

For the curate, he became more and more interested in the woman whocould love so strongly, and yet not entirely, who suffered and muststill suffer so much, and who a faith even no greater than his ownmight render comparatively blessed. The desire to help her grew andgrew in him, but he could see no way of reaching her. And then hebegan to discover one peculiar advantage belonging to the littleopen chamber of the pulpit--open not only or specially to heavenabove, but to so many of the secret chambers of the souls of thecongregation. For what a man dares not, could not if he dared, anddared not if he could, say to another, even at the time and in theplace fittest of all, he can say thence, open-faced before the wholecongregation; and the person in need thereof may hear it withoutumbrage, or the choking husk of individual application, irritatingto the rejection of what truth may lie in it for him. Would that ourpulpits were all in the power of such men as by suffering know thehuman, and by obedience the divine heart! Then would the office ofinstruction be no more mainly occupied by the press, but the facesof true men would everywhere be windows for the light of the Spiritto enter other men's souls, and the voice of their words wouldfollow with the forms of what truth they saw, and the power of theLord would speed from heart to heart. Then would men soon understandthat not the form of even soundest words availeth anything, but anew creature.

When Wingfold was in the pulpit, then, he could speak as from thesecret to the secret; but elsewhere he felt, in regard to Helen,like a transport-ship filled with troops, which must go sailingaround the shores of an invaded ally, in frustrate search for alanding. Oh, to help that woman, that the light of life might go upin her heart, and her cheek bloom again with the rose of peace! Butnot a word could he speak in her presence, for he heard everythingbe would have said as he thought it would sound to her, andtherefore he had no utterance. Is it an infirmity of certain kindsof men, or a wise provision for their protection, that the brightestforms the truth takes in their private cogitations seem to lose halftheir lustre and all their grace when uttered in the presence of anunreceptive nature, and they hear, as it were, their own voicereflected in a poor, dull, inharmonious echo, and are disgusted?

But, on the other hand, ever in the pauses of the rushing, ever inthe watery gleams of life that broke through the clouds and driftsof the fever, Leopold sought his friend, and, finding him, shoneinto a brief radiance, or, missing him, gloomed back into the landof visions. The tenderness of the curate's service, the heart thatshowed itself in everything he did, even in the turn and expressionof the ministering hand, was a kind of revelation to Helen. Forwhile his intellect was hanging about the door, asking questions,and uneasily shifting hither and thither in its unlovedperplexities, the spirit of the master had gone by it unseen, andentered into the chamber of his heart.

After preaching the sermon last recorded, there came a reaction ofdoubt and depression on the mind of the curate, greater than usual.Had he not gone farther than his right? Had he not implied moreconviction than was his? Words could not go beyond his satisfactionwith what he found in the gospel, or the hopes for the range of hisconscious life springing therefrom; but was he not now making peoplesuppose him more certain of the FACT of these things than he was? Hewas driven to console himself with the reflection that so long as hehad had no such intention, even if he had been so carried away bythe delight of his heart as to give such an impression, it matteredlittle: what was it to other people what he believed or how hebelieved? If he had not been untrue to himself, no harm wouldfollow. Was a man never to talk from the highest in him to theforgetting of the lower? Was a man never to be carried beyondhimself and the regions of his knowledge? If so, then farewellpoetry and prophecy--yea, all grand discovery!--for things must beforeseen ere they can be realized--apprehended ere they becomprehended. This much he could say for himself, and no more, thathe was ready to lay down his life for the mere CHANCE, if he mightso use the word, of these things being true; nor did he argue anydevotion in that, seeing life without them would be to him a wasteof unreality. He could bear witness to no facts--but to the truth,to the loveliness and harmony and righteousness and safety that hesaw in the idea of the Son of Man--as he read it in the story. Hedared not say what, in a time of persecution, torture might workupon him, but he felt right hopeful that, even were he base enoughto deny him, any cock might crow him back to repentance. At the sametime he saw plain enough that even if he gave his body to be burned,it were no sufficing assurance of his Christianity: nothing couldsatisfy him of that less than the conscious presence of the perfectcharity. Without that he was still outside the kingdom, wandering ina dream around its walls.

Difficulties went on presenting themselves; at times he would beoverwhelmed in the tossing waves of contradiction and impossibility;but still his head would come up into the air and he would get abreath before he went down again. And with every fresh conflict,every fresh gleam of doubtful victory, the essential idea of themaster looked more and more lovely. And he began to see the workingof his doubts on the growth of his heart and soul--both wideningand realizing his faith, and preventing it from becoming faith in anidea of God instead of in the living God--the God beyond as well asin the heart that thought and willed and imagined.

He had much time for reflection as he sat silent by the bedside ofLeopold. Sometimes Helen would be sitting near, though generallywhen he arrived she went out for her walk, but never anything cameto him he could utter to her. And she was one of those who learnlittle from other people. A change must pass upon her ere she couldbe rightly receptive. Some vapour or other that clouded her beingmust be driven to the winds first.

Mrs. Ramshorn had become at least reconciled to the frequentpresence of the curate, partly from the testimony of Helen, partlyfrom the witness of her own eyes to the quality of his ministrations.She was by no means one of the loveliest among women, yet she had aheart, and could appreciate some kinds of goodness which the arroganceof her relation to the church did not interfere to hide--for nothingis so deadening to the divine as an habitual dealing with the outsidesof holy things--and she became half-friendly and quite courteous whenshe met the curate on the stair, and would now and then, when shethought of it, bring him a glass of wine as he sat by the bedside.

CHAPTER VIII.

AN EXAMINATION.

The acquaintance between the draper and the gate-keeper rapidlyripened into friendship. Very generally, as soon as he had shut hisshop, Drew would walk to the park-gate to see Polwarth; and threetimes a week at least, the curate made one of the party. Much wasthen talked, more was thought, and I venture to say, more yet wasunderstood.

One evening the curate went earlier than usual, and had tea with thePolwarths.

"Do you remember," he asked of his host, "once putting to me thequestion what our Lord came into this world for?"

"I do," answered Polwarth.

"And you remember I answered you wrong: I said it was to save theworld."

"I do. But remember, I said _primarily_, for of course he did cometo save the world."

"Yes, just so you put it. Well, I think I can answer the questioncorrectly now, and in learning the true answer I have learned much.Did he not come first of all to do the will of his Father? Was nothis Father first with him always and in everything--his fellow-mennext--for they were his Father's?"

"I need not say it--you know that you are right. Jesus is tenfold areal person to you--is he not--since you discovered that truth?"

"I think so; I hope so. It does seem as if a grand simple realityhad begun to dawn upon me out of the fog--the form as of a man pureand simple, _because_ the eternal son of the Father."

"And now, may I not ask--are you able to accept the miracles, thingsin themselves so improbable?"

"If we suppose the question settled as to whether the man was whathe said, then all that remains is to ask whether the works reportedof him are consistent with what you can see of the character of theman."

"Meantime let me ask you a question about them. What was the mainobject of miracles?"

"One thing at least I have learned, Mr. Polwarth and that is, not toanswer any question of yours in a hurry," said Wingfold. "I will, ifyou please, take this one home with me, and hold the light to it."

"Do," said Polwarth, "and you will find it return you the lightthreefold.--One word more, ere Mr. Drew comes: do you still think ofgiving up your curacy?"

"I have almost forgotten I ever thought of such a thing. Whateverenergies I may or may not have, I know one thing for certain, that Icould not devote them to anything else I should think entirely worthdoing. Indeed nothing else seems interesting enough--nothing torepay the labour, but the telling of my fellow-men about the one manwho is the truth, and to know whom is the life. Even if there be nohereafter, I would live my time believing in a grand thing thatought to be true if it is not. No facts can take the place oftruths, and if these be not truths, then is the loftiest part of ournature a waste. Let me hold by the better than the actual, and fallinto nothingness off the same precipice with Jesus and John and Pauland a thousand more, who were lovely in their lives, and with theirdeath make even the nothingness into which they have passed like thegarden of the Lord. I will go further, Polwarth, and say, I wouldrather die for evermore believing as Jesus believed, than live forevermore believing as those that deny him. If there be no God, Ifeel assured that existence is and could be but a chaos ofcontradictions, whence can emerge nothing worthy to be called atruth, nothing worth living for.--No, I will not give up my curacy.I will teach that which IS good, even if there should be no God tomake a fact of it, and I will spend my life on it, in the growinghope, which MAY become assurance, that there is indeed a perfectGod, worthy of being the Father of Jesus Christ, and that it wasBECAUSE they are true, that these things were lovely to me and to somany men and women, of whom some have died for them, and some wouldbe yet ready to die."

"How goes business?" said Polwarth, when the new-comer had seatedhimself.

"That is hardly a question I look for from you, sir," returned thedraper, smiling all over his round face, which looked more than everlike a moon of superior intelligence. "For me, I am glad to leave itbehind me in the shop."

"True business can never be left in any shop. It is a care, white orblack, that sits behind every horseman."

"That is fact; and with me it has just taken a new shape," saidDrew, "for I have come with quite a fresh difficulty. Since I sawyou last, Mr. Polwarth, a strange and very uncomfortable doubt hasrushed in upon me, and I find myself altogether unfit to tackle it.I have no weapons--not a single argument of the least weight. Iwonder if it be a law of nature that no sooner shall a man get intoa muddle with one thing, than a thousand other muddles shall comepouring in upon him, as if Muddle itself were going to swallow himup! Here am I just beginning to get a little start in honester ways,when up comes the ugly head of the said doubt, swelling itself moreand more to look like a fact--namely, that after this world there isnothing for us--nothing at all to be had anyhow--that as we came sowe go--into life, out of life--that, having been nothing before, weshall be nothing after! The flowers come back in the spring, and thecorn in the autumn, but they ain't the same flowers or the samecorn. They're just as different as the new generations of men."

"There's no pretence that we come back either. We only think wedon't go into the ground, but away somewhere else."

"You can't prove that."

"No."

"And you don't know anything about it!"

"Not much--but enough, I think."

"Why, even those that profess to believe it, scoff at the idea of anapparition--a ghost!"

"That's the fault of the ghosts, I suspect--or their reporters. Idon't care about them myself. I prefer the tale of one who, theysay, rose again, and brought his body with him."

"Yes; but he was only one!"

"Except two or three whom, they say, he brought to life."

"Still there are but three or four."

"To tell you the truth, I do not care much to argue the point withyou.--It is by no means a matter of the FIRST importance whether welive for ever or not."

"Mr. Polwarth!" exclaimed the draper in such astonishment mingledwith horror, as proved he was not in immediate danger of becoming anadvocate of the doctrine of extinction.

The gate-keeper smiled what, but for a peculiar expression ofundefinable good in it, might have been called a knowing smile.

"Suppose a thing were in itself not worth having," he said, "wouldit be any great enhancement of it as a gift to add the assurancethat the possession of it was eternal! Most people think it a finething to have a bit of land to call their own and leave to theirchildren; but suppose a stinking and undrainable swamp, full of foulsprings--what consolation would it be to the proprietor of that toknow, while the world lasted, not a human being would once disputeits possession with any fortunate descendant holding it?"

The draper only stared, but his stare was a thorough one. The curatesat waiting, with both amusement and interest, for what wouldfollow: he saw the direction in which the little man was driving.

"You astonish me!" said Mr. Drew, recovering his mental breath. "Howcan you compare God's gift to such a horrible thing! Where should webe without life?"

Rachel burst out laughing, and the curate could not help joiningher.

"Mr. Drew," said Polwarth, half merrily, "are you going to help medrag my chain out of its weary length, or are you too much shockedat the doubtful condition of its links to touch them? I promise youthe last shall be of bright gold."

"I beg your pardon," said the draper; "I might have known you didn'tmean it."

"On the contrary, I mean everything I say and that literally.Perhaps I don't mean everything you fancy I mean.--Tell me then,would life be worth having on any and every possible condition?"

"Certainly not."

"You know some, I dare say, who would be glad to be rid of life suchas it is, and such as they suppose it must continue?"

"I don't."

"I do."

"I have already understood that everybody clung to life."

"Most people do; everybody certainly does not: Job, for instance."

"They say that is but a poem."

"BUT a poem! EVEN a poem--a representation true not of this or thatindividual, but of the race! There ARE such persons as would gladlybe rid of life, and in their condition all would feel the same.Somewhat similar is the state of those who profess unbelief in theexistence of God: none of them expect, and few of them seem to wishto live for ever!--At least, so I am told."

"That is no wonder," said the draper; "--if they don't believe inGod, I mean."

"Then there I have you! There you allow life to be not worth having,if on certain evil conditions."

"I admit it, then."

"And I repeat that to prove life endless is a matter of the FIRSTimportance. And I will go a little farther.--Does it follow thatlife is worth having because a man would like to have it for ever?"

"I should say so; who should be a better judge than the manhimself?"

"Let us look at it a moment. Suppose--we will take a strongcase--suppose a man whose whole delight is in cruelty, and who hassuch plentiful opportunity of indulging the passion that he finds itwell with him--such a man would of course desire such a life toendure for ever: is such a life worth having? were it well that manshould be immortally cruel?"

"Not for others."

"Still less, I say, for himself."

"In the judgment of others, doubtless; but to himself he would behappy."

"Call his horrible satisfaction happiness then, and leave aside thefact that in its own nature it is a horror, and not a bliss: a timemust come, when, in the exercise of his delight, he shall havedestroyed all life besides, and made himself alone with himself inan empty world: will he then find life worth having?"

"Then he ought to live for punishment."

"With that we have nothing to do now, but there you have given me ananswer to my question, whether a man's judgment that his life isworth having, proves immortality a thing to be desired."

"I have. I understand now."

"It follows that there is something of prior importance to thepossession of immortality:--what is that something?"

"I suppose that the immortality itself should be worth possessing."

"Yes; that the life should be such that it were well it should beendless.--And what then if it be not such?"

"The question then would be whether it could not be made such."

"You are right.--And wherein consists the essential inherentworthiness of a life as life?--The only perfect idea of life is--aunit, self-existent, and creative. That is God, the only one. But tothis idea, in its kind, must every life, to be complete as life,correspond; and the human correspondence to self-existence is, thatthe man should round and complete himself by taking into himselfthat origin; by going back and in his own will adopting his origin,rooting therein afresh in the exercise of his own freedom and in allthe energy of his own self-roused will; in other words--that the mansay "I will be after the will of the creating _I_;" that he see andsay with his whole being that to will the will of God in himself andfor himself and concerning himself, is the highest possiblecondition of a man. Then has he completed his cycle by turning backupon his history, laying hold of his cause, and willing his ownbeing in the will of the only I AM. This is the rounding,re-creating, unifying of the man. This is religion, and all thatgathers not with this, scatters abroad."

"And then," said Drew, with some eagerness, "lawfully comes thequestion, 'Shall I, or shall I not live for ever?'"

"Pardon me; I think not," returned the little prophet. "I thinkrather we have done with it for ever. The man with life so inhimself, will not dream of asking whether he shall live. It is onlyin the twilight of a half-life, holding in it at once much whereforeit should desire its own continuance, and much that renders itunworthy of continuance, that the doubtful desire of immortality canarise.--Do you remember"--here Polwarth turned to Wingfold--"mymentioning to you once a certain manuscript of strange interest--tome at least and Rachel--which a brother of mine left behind him?"

"I remember it perfectly," answered the curate."

"It seems so to mingle with all I ever think on this question, thatI should much like, if you gentlemen would allow me, to read someextracts from it."

Nothing could have been heartier than the assurance of both the menthat they could but be delighted to listen to anything he chose togive them.

"I must first tell you, however," said Polwarth, "merely to protectyou from certain disturbing speculations, otherwise sure to presentthemselves, that my poor brother was mad, and that what I now readportions of seemed to him no play of the imagination, but a recordof absolute fact. Some parts are stranger and less intelligible thanothers, but through it all there is abundance of intellectualmovement, and what seems to me a wonderful keenness to perceive themovements and arrest the indications of an imagined consciousness."

As he spoke, the little man was opening a cabinet in which he kepthis precious things. He brought from it a good-sized quarto volume,neatly bound in morocco, with gilt edges, which he seemed to handlenot merely with respect but with tenderness.

The heading of the next chapter is my own, and does not belong tothe manuscript.

CHAPTER X.

PASSAGES FROM THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE WANDERING JEW.

"'I have at length been ill, very ill, once more, and for manyreasons foreign to the weightiest, which I had forgotten, I hadhoped that I was going to die. But therein I am as usual deceivedand disappointed. That I have been out of my mind I know, by havingreturned to the real knowledge of what I am. The conscious presenthas again fallen together and made a whole with the past, and thatwhole is my personal identity.

"'How I broke loose from the bonds of a madness, which, after somany and heavy years of uninterrupted sanity, had at length laidhold upon me, I will now relate.

"'I had, as I have said, been very ill--with some sort of fever thathad found fit rooting in a brain overwearied, from not having beenoriginally constructed to last so long. Whether it came not of anindwelling demon, or a legion of demons, I cannot tell--God knows.Surely I was as one possessed. I was mad, whether for years, or butfor moments--who can tell? I cannot. Verily it seems for many years;but, knowing well the truth concerning the relations of time in himthat dreameth and waketh from his dream, I place no confidence inthe testimony of the impressions left upon my seeming memory. I canhowever trust it sufficiently as to the character of the illusionsthat then possessed me. I imagined myself an Englishman calledPolwarth, of an ancient Cornish family. Indeed, I had in myimagination, as Polwarth, gone through the history, every day of it,with its sunrise and sunset, of more than half a lifetime. I had abrother who was deformed and a dwarf, and a daughter who was likehim; and the only thing, throughout the madness, that approached aconsciousness of my real being and history, was the impression thatthese things had come upon me because of a certain grievous wrong Ihad at one time committed, which wrong, however, I had quiteforgotten--and could ill have imagined in its native hideousness.

"'But one morning, just as I woke, after a restless night filledwith dreams, I was aware of a half-embodied shadow in my mind--whether thought or memory or imagination, I could not tell: and thestrange thing was, that it darkly radiated from it the convictionthat I must hold and identify it, or be for ever lost to myself.Therefore, with all the might of my will to retain the shadow, andall the energy of my recollection to recall that of which it was thevague shadow, I concentrated the whole power of my spiritual manupon the phantom thought, to fix and retain it.

"'Everyone knows what it is to hunt such a formless fact. Evanescentas a rainbow, its whole appearance, from the first, is that of athing in the act of vanishing. It is a thing that was known, but,from the moment consciousness turned its lantern upon it, began tobecome invisible. For a time, during the close pursuit that follows,it seems only to be turning corner after corner to evade the mind'seye, but behind every corner it leaves a portion of itself; until atlength, although when finally cannot be told, it is gone so utterlythat the mind remains aghast in the perplexity of the doubt whetherever there was a thought there at all.

"'Throughout my delusion of an English existence, I had beentormented in my wakings with such thought-phantoms, and ever had Ifollowed them, as an idle man may follow a flitting marsh-fire.Indeed, I had grown so much interested in the phenomenon and itspossible indications that I had invented various theories to accountfor them, some of which seemed to myself original and ingenious,while the common idea that they are vague reminiscences of a formerstate of being, I had again and again examined, and as oftenentirely rejected, as in no way tenable or verisimilar.

"'But upon the morning to which I have referred, I succeeded, forthe first time, in fixing, capturing, identifying the haunting,fluttering thing. That moment the bonds of my madness were broken.My past returned upon me. I had but to think in any direction, andevery occurrence, with time and place and all its circumstance, roseagain before me. The awful fact of my own being once more stoodbare--awful always--tenfold more awful after such a period ofblissful oblivion thereof: I was, I had been, I am now, as I write,the man so mysterious in crime, so unlike all other men in hispunishment, known by various names in various lands--here in Englandas the Wandering Jew. Ahasuerus was himself again, alas!--himselfand no other. Wife, daughter, brother vanished, and returned only indreams. I was and remain the wanderer, the undying, the repentant,the unforgiven. O heart! O weary feet! O eyes that have seen andnever more shall see, until they see once and are blinded for ever!Back upon my soul rushes the memory of my deed, like a storm of hailmingled with fire, flashing through every old dry channel, that itthrobs and writhes anew, scorched at once and torn with thepoisonous burning."

CHAPTER XI.

THE WANDERING JEW.

"'It was a fair summer-morning in holy Jerusalem, and I sat andwrought at my trade, for I sewed a pair of sandals for the feet ofthe high priest Caiaphas. And I wrought diligently, for it behovedme to cease an hour ere set of sun, for it was the day ofpreparation for the eating of the Passover.

"'Now all that night there had been a going to and fro in the city,for the chief priests and their followers had at length laid handsupon him that was called Jesus, whom some believed to be theMessiah, and others, with my fool-self amongst them, anarch-impostor and blasphemer. For I was of the house of Caiaphas,and heartily did desire that the man my lord declared a deceiver ofthe people, should meet with the just reward of his doings. Thus Isat and worked, and thought and rejoiced; and the morning passed andthe noon came.

"'It was a day of sultry summer, and the street burned beneath thesun, and I sat in the shadow and looked out upon the glare; and everI wrought at the sandals of my lord, with many fine stitches, incunning workmanship. All had been for some time very still, whensuddenly I thought I heard a far-off tumult. And soon came the idlechildren, who ever run first that they be not swallowed up of thecrowd; and they ran and looked behind as they ran. And after themcame the crowd, crying and shouting, and swaying hither and thither;and in the midst of it arose the one arm of a cross, beneath theweight of which that same Jesus bent so low that I saw him not.Truly, said I, he hath not seldom borne heavier burdens in theworkshop of his father the Galilean, but now his sins and hisidleness have found him, and taken from him his vigour; for he thatdespiseth the law shall perish, while they that wait upon the Lordshall renew their strength. For I was wroth with the man who taughtthe people to despise the great ones that administered the law, andgive honour to the small ones who only kept it. Besides, he haddriven my father's brother from the court of the Gentiles with awhip, which truly hurt him not outwardly, but stung him to the soul;and yet that very temple which he pretended thus to honour, he hadthreatened to destroy and build again in three days! Such were thethoughts of my heart; and when I learned from the boys that it wasin truth Jesus of Nazareth who passed on his way to Calvary to becrucified, my heart leaped within me at the thought that the law hadat length overtaken the malefactor. I laid down the sandal and myawl, and rose and went forth and stood in the front of my shop. AndJesus drew nigh, and as he passed, lo, the end of the cross draggedupon the street. And one in the crowd came behind, and lifted it upand pushed therewith, so that Jesus staggered and had nigh fallen.Then would be fain have rested the arm of the cross on the stone bywhich I was wont to go up into my shop from the street. But I criedout, and drove him thence, saying scornfully, "Go on Jesus; go on.Truly thou restest not on stone of mine!" Then turned he his eyesupon me, and said, "I go indeed, but thou goest not;" and therewithhe rose again under the weight of the cross, and staggered on,

"'And I followed in the crowd to Calvary.'"

Here the reader paused and said,

"I can give you but a few passages now. You see it is a largemanuscript. I will therefore choose some of those that bear upon thesubject of which we have been talking. A detailed account of thecrucifixion follows here, which I could not bring myself to readaloud. The eclipse is in it, and the earthquake, and the white facesof the risen dead gleaming through the darkness about the cross. Itends thus:

"'And all the time, I stood not far from the foot of the cross, nordared go nearer, for around it were his mother and they that werewith her, and my heart was sore for her also. And I would havewithdrawn my foot from the place where I stood, and gone home toweep, but something, I know not what, held me there as it wererooted to the ground. At length the end was drawing near. He openedhis mouth and spake to his mother and the disciple who stood by her,but truly I know not what he said, for as his eyes turned from them,they looked upon me, and my heart died within me. He said nought,but his eyes had that in them that would have slain me with sorrow,had not death, although I knew it not, already shrunk from mypresence, daring no more come nigh such a malefactor.--Oh Death, howgladly would I build thee a temple, set thee in a lofty place, andworship thee with the sacrifice of vultures on a fire of dead men'sbones, wouldst thou but hear my cry!--But I rave again in my folly!God forgive me. All the days of my appointed time will I wait untilmy change come.--With that look--a well of everlasting tears in mythrobbing brain--my feet were unrooted, and I fled.'"

Here the reader paused again, and turned over many leaves.

"'And ever as I passed at night through the lands, when I came to across by the wayside, thereon would I climb, and, winding my armsabout its arms and my feet about its stem, would there hang in thedarkness or the moon, in rain or hail, in wind or snow or frost,until my sinews gave way, and my body dropped, and I knew no moreuntil I found myself lying at its foot in the morning. For, ever insuch case, I lay without sense until again the sun shone upon me.

"'... And if ever the memory of that look passed from me, then,straightway I began to long for death, and so longed until thememory and the power of the look came again, and with the sorrow inmy soul came the patience to live. And truly, although I speak offorgetting and remembering, such motions of my spirit in me were notas those of another man; in me they are not measured by the scale ofmen's lives; they are not of years, but of centuries; for theseconds of my life are ticked by a clock whose pendulum swingsthrough an arc of motionless stars.

"'... Once I had a vision of Death. Methinks it must have been aprecursive vapour of the madness that afterwards infolded me, for Iknow well that there is not one called Death, that he is but a wordneedful to the weakness of human thought and the poverty of humanspeech; that he is a no-being, and but a change from that whichis.--I had a vision of Death, I say. And it was on this wise:

"'I was walking over a wide plain of sand, like Egypt, so that everand anon I looked around me to see if nowhere, from the base of thehorizon, the pyramids cut their triangle out of the blue night ofheaven; but I saw none. The stars came down and sparkled on the drysands, and all was waste, and wide desolation. The air also wasstill as the air of a walled-up tomb, where there are but dry bones,and not even the wind of an evil vapour that rises from decay. Andthrough the dead air came ever the low moaning of a distant sea,towards which my feet did bear me. I had been journeying thus foryears, and in their lapse it had grown but a little louder.--SuddenlyI was aware that I was not alone. A dim figure strode beside me,vague, but certain of presence. And I feared him not, seeing thatwhich men fear the most was itself that which by me was the mostdesired. So I stood and turned and would have spoken. But the shadethat seemed not a shadow, went on and regarded me not. Then I alsoturned again towards the moaning of the sea and went on. And lo!the shade which had gone before until it seemed but as a vapouramong the stars, was again by my side walking. And I said, and stoodnot, but walked on: Thou shade that art not a shadow, seeing thereshineth no sun or moon, and the stars are many, and the one slayeththe shadow of the other, what art thou, and wherefore goest thou bymy side? Think not to make me afraid, for I fear nothing in theuniverse but that which I love the best.--I spake of the eyes of theLord Jesus.--Then the shade that seemed no shadow answered me andspake and said: Little knowest thou what I am, seeing the very thingthou sayest I am not, that I am, and nought else, and there is noother but me. I am Shadow, the shadow, the only shadow--none such asthose from which the light hideth in terror, yet like them, for lifehideth from me and turneth away, yet if life were not, neither wereI, for I am nothing; and yet again, as soon as anything is, there amI, and needed no maker, but came of myself, for I am Death.--Ha!Death! I cried, and would have cast myself before him with outstretchedarms of worshipful entreaty; but lo, there was a shadow upon the beltof Orion, and no shadow by my side! and I sighed, and walked on towardsthe ever moaning sea. Then again the shadow was by my side. And againI spake and said: Thou thing of flitting and return, I despise thee,for thou wilt not abide the conflict. And I would have cast myself uponhim and wrestled with him there, for defeat and not for victory. But Icould not lay hold upon him. Thou art a powerless nothing, I cried; Iwill not even defy thee.--Thou wouldst provoke me, said the shadow; butit availeth not. I cannot be provoked. Truly, I am but a shadow, yetknow I my own worth, for I am the Shadow of the Almighty, and wherehe is, there am I--Thou art nothing, I said.--Nay, nay, I am notNothing. Thou, nor any man--God only knoweth what that wordmeaneth. I am but the shadow of Nothing, and when THOU sayestNOTHING, thou meanest only me; but what God meaneth when he sayethNOTHING--the nothing without him, that nothing which is no shadowbut the very substance of Unbeing--no created soul can know.--Thenart thou not Death? I asked.--I am what thou thinkest of when thousayest Death, he answered, but I am not Death.--Alas, then! whycomest thou to me in the desert places, for I did think thou wastDeath indeed, and couldst take me unto thee so that I should be nomore.--That is what death cannot do for thee, said the shadow; nonebut he that created thee can cause that thou shouldst be no more.Thou art until he will that thou be not. I have heard it saidamongst the wise that, hard as it is to create, it is harder stillto uncreate. Truly I cannot tell. But wouldst thou be uncreated bythe hand of Death? Wouldst thou have thy no-being the gift of ashadow?--Then I thought of the eyes of the Lord Jesus, and the lookhe cast upon me, and I said, No: I would not be carried away ofDeath. I would be fulfilled of Life, and stand before God for ever.Then once again the belt of Orion grew dim, and I saw the shadow nomore. And yet did I long for Death, for I thought he might bring meto those eyes, and the pardon that lay in them.

"'But again, as the years went on, and each brought less hope thanthat before it, I forgot the look the Lord had cast upon me, and inthe weariness of the life that was mortal and yet would not cease,in the longing after the natural end of that which against natureendured, I began to long even for the end of being itself. And in acity of the Germans, I found certain men of my own nation who saidunto me: Fear not, Ahasuerus; there is no life beyond the grave.Live on until thy end come, and cease thy complaints. Who is thereamong us who would not gladly take upon him thy judgment, and liveuntil he was weary of living?--Yea, but to live after thou artweary? I said. But they heeded me not, answering me and saying:Search thou the Scriptures, even the Book of the Law, and see ifthou find there one leaf of this gourd of a faith that hath sprungup in a night. Verily, this immortality is but a flash in the brainof men that would rise above their fate. Sayeth Moses, or sayethJob, or sayeth David or Daniel a word of the matter? And I listenedunto them, and became of their mind. But therewithal the longingafter death returned with tenfold force and I rose up and girt mygarment about me, and went forth once more to search for him whom Inow took for the porter of the gate of eternal silence and unfeltrepose. And I said unto myself as I walked: What in the old days wassweeter when I was weary with my labour at making of shoes, than tofind myself dropping into the death of sleep! how much sweeter thenmust it not be to sink into the sleepiest of sleeps, thefather-sleep, the mother-bosomed death of nothingness and unawakingrest! Then shall all this endless whir of the wheels of thought anddesire be over; then welcome the night whose darkness doth notseethe, and which no morning shall ever stir!

"'And wherever armies were drawing nigh, each to the other, and theday of battle was near, thither I flew in hot haste, that I might befirst upon the field, and ready to welcome hottest peril. I foughtnot, for I would not slay those that counted it not the good thingto be slain, as I counted it. But had the armies been of men thatloved death like me, how had I raged among them then, even as theangel Azrael to give them their sore-desired rest! for I loved andhated not my kind, and would diligently have mown them down out ofthe stinging air of life into the soft balm of the sepulchre. Butwhat they sought not, and I therefore would not give, that searchedI after the more eagerly for myself. And my sight grew so keen that,when yet no bigger than a mote in the sunbeam, I could always descrythe vulture-scout, hanging aloft over the field of destiny. Thenwould I hasten on and on, until a swoop would have brought himstraight on my head.

"'And with that a troop of horsemen, horses and men mad with livingfear, came with a level rush towards the spot where I sat, faintwith woe. And I sprang up, and bounded to meet them, throwing myarms aloft and shouting, as one who would turn a herd. And like awave of the rising tide before a swift wind, a wave that sweeps onand breaks not, they came hard-buffeting over my head. Ah! that wasa torrent indeed!--a thunderous succession of solid billows, alive,hurled along by the hurricane-fear in the heart of them! For onemoment only I felt and knew what I lay beneath, and then for a timethere was nothing.--I woke in silence, and thought I was dying, thatI had all but passed across the invisible line between, and in amoment there would be for evermore nothing and nothing. Thenfollowed again an empty space as it seemed. And now I am dead andgone, I said, and shall wander no more. And with that came the agonyof hell, for, lo, still _I_ THOUGHT! And I said to myself, Alas! OGod! for, notwithstanding I no more see or hear or taste or smell ortouch, and my body hath dropped from me, still am I Ahasuerus, theWanderer, and must go on and on and on, blind and deaf, through theunutterable wastes that know not the senses of man--nevermore tofind rest! Alas! death is not death, seeing he slayeth but theleathern bottle, and spilleth not the wine of life upon the earth.Alas! alas! for I cannot die! And with that a finger twitched, and Ishouted aloud for joy: I was yet in the body! And I sprang to myfeet jubilant, and, lame and bruised and broken-armed, tottered awayafter Death, who yet might hold the secret of eternal repose. I wasalive, but yet there was hope, for Death was yet before me! I wasalive, but I had not died, and who could tell but I might yet findthe lovely night that hath neither clouds nor stars! I had notpassed into the land of the dead and found myself yet living! Thewise men of my nation in the city of the Almains might yet be wise!And for an hour I rejoiced, and was glad greatly.'"

CHAPTER XII.

THE WANDERING JEW.

"It was midnight, and sultry as hell. All day not a breath hadstirred. The country through which I passed was level as the seathat had once flowed above it. My heart had almost ceased to beat,and I was weary as the man who is too weary to sleep outright, andlabours in his dreams. I slumbered and yet walked on. My bloodflowed scarce faster than the sluggish water in the many canals Icrossed on my weary way. And ever I thought to meet the shadow thatwas and was not death. But this was no dream. Just on the stroke ofmidnight, I came to the gate of a large city, and the watchers letme pass. Through many an ancient and lofty street I wandered, like aghost in a dream, knowing no one, and caring not for myself, and atlength reached an open space where stood a great church, the crossupon whose spire seemed bejewelled with the stars upon which itdwelt. And in my soul I said, O Lord Jesus! and went up to the baseof the tower, and found the door thereof open to my hand. Then withmy staff I ascended the winding stairs, until I reached the opensky. And the stairs went still winding, on and on, up towards thestars. And with my staff I ascended, and arose into the sky, until Istood at the foot of the cross of stone.

"'Ay me! how the centuries without haste, without rest, had glidedalong since I stood by the cross of dishonour and pain! And God hadnot grown weary of his life yet, but I had grown so weary in my verybones that weariness was my element, and I had ceased almost to noteit. And now, high-uplifted in honour and worship over every populouscity, stood the cross among the stars! I scrambled up the pinnacles,and up on the carven stem of the cross, for my sinews were as steel,and my muscles had dried and hardened until they were as those ofthe tiger or the great serpent. So I climbed, and lifted up myselfuntil I reached the great arms of the cross, and over them I flungmy arms, as was my wont, and entwined the stem with my legs, andthere hung, three hundred feet above the roofs of the houses. And asI hung the moon rose and cast the shadow of me Ahasuerus upon thecross, up against the Pleiades. And as if dull Nature were offendedthereat, nor understood the offering of my poor sacrifice, theclouds began to gather, like the vultures--no one could have toldwhence. From all sides around they rose, and the moon was blottedout, and they gathered and rose until they met right over the cross.And when they closed, then the lightning brake forth, and thethunder with it, and it flashed and thundered above and around andbeneath me, so that I could not tell which voice belonged to whicharrow, for all were mingled in one great confusion and uproar. Andthe people in the houses below heard the sound of the thunder, andthey looked from their windows, and they saw the storm raving andflashing about the spire, which stood the heart of the agony, andthey saw something hang there, even upon its cross, in the form of aman, and they came from their houses, and the whole space beneathwas filled with people, who stood gazing up at the marvel. AMIRACLE! A MIRACLE! they cried; and truly it was no miracle--it wasonly me Ahasuerus, the wanderer taking thought concerning his crimeagainst the crucified. Then came a great light all about me, suchlight for shining as I had never before beheld, and indeed I saw itnot all with my eyes, but the greater part with my soul, whichsurely is the light of the eyes themselves. And I said to myself,Doubtless the Lord is at hand, and he cometh to me as late to theblessed Saul of Tarsus, who was NOT the chief of sinners, butI--Ahasuerus, the accursed. And the thunder burst like the burstingof a world in the furnace of the sun; and whether it was that thelightning struck me, or that I dropped, as was my custom, outweariedfrom the cross, I know not, but thereafter I lay at its foot amongthe pinnacles, and when the people looked again, the miracle wasover, and they returned to their houses and slept. And the next day,when I sought the comfort of the bath, I found upon my side thefigure of a cross, and the form of a man hanging thereupon as I hadhung, depainted in a dark colour as of lead plain upon the flesh ofmy side over my heart. Here was a miracle indeed! but verily I knewnot whether therefrom to gather comfort or despair.

"'And it was night as I went into a village among the mountains,through the desert places of which I had all that day beenwandering. And never before had my condition seemed to me sohopeless. There was not one left upon the earth who had ever seen meknowing me, and although there went a tale of such a man as I, yetfaith had so far vanished from the earth that for a thing to bemarvellous, however just, was sufficient reason wherefore no man, tobe counted wise, should believe the same. For the last fifty years Ihad found not one that would receive my testimony. For when I toldthem the truth concerning myself, saying as I now say, and knowingthe thing for true--that I was Ahasuerus whom the Word had banishedfrom his home in the regions governed of Death, shutting against himthe door of the tomb that he should not go in, every man said I wasmad, and would hold with me no manner of communication, more than ifI had been possessed with a legion of swine-loving demons. Thereforewas I cold at heart, and lonely to the very root of my being. Andthus it was with me that midnight as I entered the village among themountains.--Now all therein slept, so even that not a dog barked atthe sound of my footsteps. But suddenly, and my soul yet quiverswith dismay at the remembrance, a yell of horror tore its way fromthe throat of every sleeper at once, and shot into every cranny ofthe many-folded mountains, that my soul knocked shaking against thesides of my body, and I also shrieked aloud with the keen terror ofthe cry. For surely there was no sleeper there, man, woman, orchild, who yelled not aloud in an agony of fear. And I knew that itcould only be because of the unseen presence in their street of theoutcast, the homeless, the loveless, the wanderer for ever, who hadrefused a stone to his maker whereon to rest his cross. Truly I knownot whence else could have come that cry. And I looked to see thatall the inhabitants of the village should rush out upon me, and gofor to slay the unslayable in their agony. But the cry passed, andafter the cry came again the stillness. And for very dread lest yetanother such cry should enter my ears, and turn my heart to a jelly,I did hasten my steps to leave the dwellings of the children of theworld, and pass out upon the pathless hills again. But as I turnedand would have departed, the door of a house opened over againstwhere I stood; and as it opened, lo! a sharp gust of wind from themountains swept along the street, and out into the wind came runninga girl, clothed only in the garment of the night. And the wind blewupon her, and by the light of the moon I saw that her hands and herfeet were rough and brown, as of one that knew labour and hardship,but yet her body was dainty and fair, and moulded in loveliness. Herhair blew around her like a rain cloud, so that it almost blindedher, and truly she had much ado to clear it from her face, as ahalf-drowned man would clear from his face the waters whence hehath been lifted; and like two stars of light from amidst the cloudgazed forth the eyes of the girl. And she looked upon me with thecourage of a child, and she said unto me, Stranger, knowest thouwherefore was that cry? Was it thou who did so cry in our street inthe night? And I answered her and said, Verily not I, maiden, but Itoo heard the cry, and it shook my soul within me.--What seemed itunto thee like, she asked, for truly I slept, and know only theterror thereof and not the sound? And I said, It seemed unto me thatevery soul in the village cried out at once in some dream ofhorror.--I cried not out, she said; for I slept and dreamed, and mydream was such that I know verily I cried not out. And the maidenwas lovely in her innocence. And I said: And was thy dream such,maiden, that thou wouldst not refuse but wouldst tell it to an oldman like me? And with that the wind came down from the mountain likea torrent of wolves, and it laid hold upon me and swept me from thevillage, and I fled before it, and could not stay my steps until Igot me into the covert of a hollow rock.

"'And scarce had I turned in thither when, lo! thither came the maidenalso, flying in my footsteps, and driven of the self-same mightywind. And I turned in pity and said, Fear not, my child. Here is butan old man with a sore and withered heart, and he will not harmthee.--I fear thee not, she answered, else would I not havefollowed thee.--Thou didst not follow me of thine own inclining, Isaid, but the wind that came from the mountains and swept me beforeit, did bear thee after me.--Truly I know of no wind, she said, but